As Befits a Gryffindor
by Alexandrus W. Pendragon
Summary: Some Gryffindors, past and present, reflect on the concept of courage. Major OotP spoilers. Full summary within.
1. Death Be Not Proud

A/N: I got the idea for this fic while I was (re)reading OotP. I actually wrote what is now chapter 2 first, and then decided to expand it to cover pretty much the entire book. It is not so much a fic as a series of short fics, each united by the theme of courage, the Gryffindor ideal. I'm going to try to keep the chapters in chronological order according to the book, so the chapter order is subject to change. Check for review replies on the most recently posted chapter (not necessarily the last one) and of course, please r/r. So, without further ado:

As Befits a Gryffindor

Disclaimer: All places and characters are the creations of JK Rowling and the property thereof. Nearly all of the dialogue is lifted from "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" by the same. The title of this chapter is taken from the poem "Holy Sonnet No. 10" by John Donne.

Death be not Proud

A mother's work is never done, Molly Weasley thought to herself. It was mid-August already, and that meant that the children would be starting school soon, which in turn meant that days of laundry, packing, and shopping would be in order if they were to be fully prepared for its beginning. Added to her work for the order and the seemingly endless task of fighting 12 Grimauld Place into some semblance of habitability, such an undertaking would crushed for a lesser person. But not for Molly. She had borne and raised seven wonderful children, most of whom had turned out all right, and if all her years of mothering had taught her anything, it was how to deal with work.

And that was exactly what she was doing as she marched into Ron and Harry's bedroom that morning, with a load of laundry under one arm. Ron and Harry were there, of course, as were Hermione and the twins. If she hadn't had so much on her mind, Molly might have noticed their uncharacteristic silence. "Ginny said the booklists had come at last," she said, noticing the open envelopes on the bed, their Hogwarts seals freshly broken. "If you give them to me I'll take them over to Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your book swhile you're packing. Ron, I'll have to get you more pajamas, these are at least six inches too short, I can't believe how fast you're growing…" she smiled to herself. "What color would you like?"

"Get him red and gold," George said, his mouth open in a wide smirk, "to match his badge."

"Match his what?" Molly asked, planning the most efficient Diagon Alley shopping run possible, attending to the laundry, and only half attending to the conversation.

"His _badge_," George said, as if he had uttered some filthy swear word. "His lovely, shiny, new _prefects badge_."

The laundry and Diagon Alley both fled her mind. "His…but…Ron, you're not…?"

But he was. There, in his hand, gleaming in Gryffindor red and gold, was the badge of a Hogwarts prefect. She screamed for joy. Bill and Charlie had been prefects, of course. As had Percy, though Molly tried not to think about him. The twins had not, but she had hardly expected them to, after all the trouble they had caused, and Ron had seemed doomed to much the same fate, trying to curse fellow students, brewing an illegal potion, going out of bounds in pursuit of a known murderer, and getting involved in all kinds of trouble with Harry and Hermione both. Yet there it was, in his hands, the badge of a Prefect, marked with the lion of Gryffindor, and with the red and gold. She simply could not contain herself. "I don't believe it! I don't believe it! That's everyone in the family!"

"What are Fred and I, next-door neighbors?" George muttered. Molly knew he was right, of course, and new she was forgetting Ginny as well, but she was too young yet anyway, and 7 out of 9 was almost everyone anyone. She and her husband had also been Prefects in their day, wearing the badge and upholding the honor of house and school. And now, her youngest son was carrying on that same tradition as well. "Wait until your father hears, Ron, I'm so proud of you, what wonderful news, you could end up Head Boy just like Bill and Percy, it's the first step! Oh what a wonderful thing to happen in the middle of all this worry, I'm just thrilled, oh Ronnie--!"

She hugged him tightly, swelling with pride. It was truly the only good news she had heard in months, and she wasn't about to let go of it. With the Order now operating in full swing, and with half the family involved, worry had been Molly's constant companion. Add the fight with Percy, the dementor attack, Harry's hearing, and just the climate of the world in general, and it was a wonder she got out of bed some mornings. But she could hardly just lie down and mope, now could she? Even if she had been out of school for years, she had been put in Gryffindor House for a reason, and though she was not given to acts of daring and danger like Albus or the aurors, or even her own husband, no one who knew her could call the way she shepherded her flock and kept life going without the bat of an eyelash anything but bravery of the purest kind.

Ron struggled for air under her grip. "Mum…don't…Mum, get a grip…" he muttered, trying to break free to where the air was.

She released him immediately, still full of pride. "Well what will it be?" she asked. "We gave Percy and owl, but you've already got one of course."

"W-what do you mean?" he stuttered, looking at her like she had a fake eye ala Alastor Moody.

"You've got to have a reward for this!" she replied. "How about a nice new set of dress robes?"

"We've already bought him some," Fred reminded her, obviously none to thrilled about the whole business.

"Or a new cauldron," she continued, unphased, "Charlie's old one's rusting through, or a new rath, you always liked Scabbers—"

"Mum, can I have a new broom?" She stopped in her tracks. The boy deserved a reward, but brooms were very very expensive. He must have seen the worry in her face. "Bit a really good one! Just a new one, for a change."

Looking into her son's handsome brown eyes, her pride returned. "Of course you can…Well, I'd better get going if I've got a broom to buy too. I'll see you all later… Little Ronnie, a prefect! And don't forget to pack your trunks…A prefect, oh I'm all a dither!" And she left then, practically skipping on the way to her tasks.

Molly's good mood endured for the rest of the day, though good mood hardly did the feeling justice. Bliss would be closer, though still not good enough. A cloud of solid joy seemed to follow her wherever she went. Happily, though, it didn't interfere with her chores, which even with the shopping finished, included making a celebratory dinner.

After a wonderful evening of good food and good conversation, she started for bed. Yet, though she was exhausted from a long day's work, she knew she wasn't done yet. "Well, I'll sort out that boggart before I turn in," she said, yawning. "Arthru, I don't want this lot up too late, all right? 'Night, Harry dear."

She started up the stairs, still in the best mood she'd been in in months. If she had to clear out a boggart, she thought, now was the perfect time. She walked into the drawing room, closing the door behind her. She felt invincible, unflappable, and prepared for whatever it might confront her with. She raised her wand, trying to think what it might be, but unable to think even the slightest ill thought.

But the boggart could. The writing desk shook violently. Molly raised her wand. The desk burst open and out it fell. She couldn't believe it, couldn't believe it had known, couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it. How many times had she seen it all these months, just on the edge of her waking thoughts, and then over and over in her nightmares.

There was Ron, dead, in the middle of the floor. The same Ron she had sent to Hogwarts with Harry five summers ago. The same Ron she had scolded the summer after for rescuing his friend from those awful Muggles. The same Ron she had spent half the family savings buying a broom for that same day. Dead, motionless on the floor. She backed into a corner, her hand shaking. It was too much, just too much. She started to sob.

"Hello?" she heard a voice call from the landing, but just couldn't stop sobbing long enough answer. Harry, like another son to her, opened the door and stopped dead. She could see the horror in his eyes. I have to beat this, she thought, for him, for the children.

"_R-r-riddikulus!"_ She cried, brandishing her wand. The body of her youngest son disappeared, only to be replaced by the body of her eldest, Bill, already a man and living his own life, but still the baby she remembered. It was getting worse.

"_R-riddikulus!_" She shouted again. Now Arthur lay before her, his face bloody, his eyes devoid of life. How many nights had she seen this very picture in her minds eye while her husband, the father of her children, stood invisible in the Department of Mysteries, ready to give his life to save them all from the Dark Lord's plans.

"No!" she cried weakly, the horror of it all sapping her strength. "No…_riddikulus! Riddikulus! RIDDIKULLUS!"_

One by one, they lay before her. The twins. Never successes academically, never ambition like their older brothers, but still wonderful people, the light of her life. Percy. Her middle son, now estranged from the family. He had slammed his door in her face rather than talk to her, and now it looked as if they might never make peace. Harry. Ron's best friend, long Ginny's fancy, the Boy Who Lived, so abused, so misunderstood, her seventh son. She finally dropped her wand, crying uncontrollably.

"Mrs. Weasley just get out of here!" the living Harry shouted from the door. But she couldn't move. "Let somebody else—"

Footsteps on the stairs. "What's going on?" came the voice of Remus Lupin, ever calm, ever ready to help. He ran in, followed by Sirius. "_Riddikulus!" _he shouted, transforming the corpse into the shining full moon before reducing it to nothingness.

Molly broke down entirely. Remus walked over to her, trying to comfort her. "Molly, Molly don't. It was just a boggart, just a stupid boggart." But she couldn't stop crying, she couldn't forget what she had seen.

"I see them d-d-dead all the time," she confessed between sobs, revealing all the fear she had carried as a private burden for all these months. "All the t-t-time! I d-d-dream about it…"

She began to master herself, remembering her responsibilities: to the Order, to her children, to her husband. Oh God, she thought, Arthur! "D-d-don't tell Arthur," she begged them, trying hurriedly to make herself presentable and failing miserably. "I d-d-don't want him to know…being silly." She added this last part more for her own benefit than for anyone elses.

Remus offered her his handkerchief, which she gladly took, blowing her nose. She saw Harry, the living Harry, as if for the first time. "Harry I'm so sorry. What most you think of me? Not even able to get rid of a boggart…"

"Don't be stupid," he said, obviously trying to sound reassuring, and doing about as well as Molly was staying composed.

Fresh tears were welling up. "I'm just s-s-so worried. Half the f-family's in the Order, it'll b-b-be a miracle if we all come through this…and P-P-Percy's not talking to us…What if something d-d-dreadful happens and we had never m-m-made up? And what's going to happen if Arthur and I get killed, who's g-g-going to look after Ron and Ginny?"

"Molly, that's enough," Remus said suddenly, his voice both steady and steadying. "This isn't like last time. The Order are better prepared, we've got a head start, we know what Voldemort's up to—" she flinched and made a frightened noise at the sound of that terrible name. Remus continued. "Oh, Molly, come on, it's about time you got used to hearing it—Look, I can't promise no one's going to get hurt, nobody can promise that, but we're much better off than we were last time, you weren't in the Order then, you don't understand, last time we were outnumbered twenty to one by the Death Eaters and they were picking us off one by one…" she was much calmer now, felt her strength returning.

"And don't worry about Percy," said Sirius, speaking for the first time. "He'll come round. It's a matter of time before Voldemort moves into the open; once he does, the whole Ministry's going to be begging us to forgive them. And I'm not sure I'll be accepting their apology."

"And as for who's going to look after Ron and Ginny if you and Arthur died," said Remus, again a source of great comfort, "what do you think we'd do, let them starve?"

Molly looked at the two men, the two great friends, the two who had been through so much, prison, flight, oppression, poverty. "Being silly…" she said again, this time meaning it. Just fancy, that's all it had been. How could she be so emotional over an illusion, after all the real hardships that these two men had faced? No, now is not the time for tears, she thought, as she walked to bed. Tears won't help the Order. Tears won't protect my husband. Tears won't save my children. Now is the time for courage, and I don't intend to disappoint. I am, after all, a Gryffindor.

She lay down to sleep, untroubled by nightmares.

a/n: apologies for any major errors in editing. It's really late, but I'll try and fix anything I catch later.


	2. Once Upon a Midnight Dreary

As Befits a Gryffindor

Disclaimer: All people and places are the creation and property of JK Rowling. Nearly all of the dialogue is lifted verbatim from "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" by the same. The title of this chapter is taken from "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe.

Once Upon a Midnight Dreary 

She was flying. Even though she'd been doing it since she was six, flying was always seemed like a new and exciting adventure for Ginny Weasley. Whenever she climbed onto a broomstick, it was a new adventure, a new chance to taste the winds. It was that way now, and it had been that way a few hours before when she had tried out for the position of Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. That had probably been the worst time she'd ever had flying. For one thing, it was in the middle of December, and it was freezing cold. For another, she had never flown with anyone watching before, much less in front of the appraising eyes of Angelina Johnson, the half neurotic Gryffindor Chaser and Quidditch captain, to say nothing of the rest of the team (or what remained of it) and everyone else who had come out to try out. For all the audience she did have, though, the ones she had most wanted to be there were nowhere to be found. But then, Harry and her brothers were smarter than to give that foul hag Umbridge any grounds for accusing them of defying their Quidditch ban. All in all, it made for a very stressful environment to fly in.

This, on the other hand, was absolutely perfect. The air was warm and the sun was shining. The entire Slytherin Quidditch team flying around her and shouting "_Impedimenta!" _as they tried to curse her off her broom was a bit distracting, but she dodged them with ease. All of Gryffindor house stood in the stands, cheering her on, while a crowd of Slytherins tried to sing that foul song, but only ended up croaking like toads. And her Mum was there, and her Dad, and Bill and Charlie, all of them so proud of her, cheering her on. And she was happy, happy to be flying, and even happier to be a credit to her House and to her family.

But then, as if to end a too perfect day, Percy flew forward and cut her off. Filled with anger at the sight of her (in her mind) disgraced older brother, she considered ramming him. Suddenly, he said, "Ginny Weasley, wake up this instant!"

Needless to say, this did nothing to lessen her anger. "Can't you see I'm already awake, you stupid prat?"

He spoke again, but this time with Professor McGonagall's voice. "You'd better not be, Miss Weasley, or it'll be ten points from Gryffindor."

Her eyes flicked open. She was in her room in Gryffindor Tower, and Professor McGonagall was standing over her, looking even sterner than usual. "Under the circumstances, you get off with a warning," she said, "Now hurry up and get dressed while I wake up your brothers, and be down in the Common Room in not less than three minutes."

"Why? What's going on?" Ginny asked, now fully awake, but Professor McGonagall was gone. With no other explanations forthcoming, she simply did as she was told. She made it downstairs with a minute to spare, but it took half that for her head of house to emerge from the boys' dormitory, pushing the bleary-eyed twins forward with great urgency. "We're going to the Headmaster's office," she said, shepherding the three of them briskly to the portrait hole. "Mr. Potter had a vision of some sort. He says he saw your father being attacked, and he may be seriously injured."

Perhaps it was the shock, or just their sleep deprived state, but neither Ginny nor the twins could think of anything else to say as they hurried through the empty halls of the school. By the time they had reached Dumbledore's office guardian and McGonagall said the password ("Fizzing Whizbee") and they started up to the office proper, Ginny had recovered enough to be both confused and afraid. When they entered the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore himself had his back to them. Both Harry and her brother Ron, however, turned as they entered. Both looked fully awake, but pale and weak from shock. This only deepened her feeling of terror and her desperate need to know what was going on. "Harry, what's going on? Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad hurt—"

"Your father has been injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix," Professor Dumbledore interrupted. "He has been taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you back to Sirius's house, which is much more convenient for the hospital than the burrow. You will meet your mother there."

This did very little to reassure her, but before she could demand a better explanation, one of the twins asked, "How're we going? Floo powder?"

"No," Dumbledore answered. "Floo powder is not safe at the moment, as the Network is being watched. You will be using a Portkey. We are just waiting for Phineas Nigellus to report back…I wish to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you."

She had opened her mouth to ask who Phineas Nigellus was when a burst of flame distracted her. When she looked up to see, however, all there was was a golden feather. She recognized this immediately as a phoenix feather, probably belonging to the same bird that had borne Ron, Harry, then-Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, and herself out of the nightmarish Chamber of Secrets two years ago. Somehow, the sight reassured her, and calmed her nerves. Though she was still very frightened, and desperate to know what was going on, she was now more able to think clearly.

Dumbledore caught the feather easily. "It is Fawkes's warning," he said, "She must know you are out of your beds…Minerva, go and head her off—tell her any sotry—"

She was distracted again by a movement in the corner of her eye. A wizard with a forked beard and dressed in silver and green had just walked into one of the portraits (presumably his own, given the large Slytherin banner in the background.) "He says he'll be delighted," the wizard said, obviously not much interested in what was going on. So this must be Phineas Nigellus, she thought, trying to suppress her anger at the long dead headmaster's lack of concern for her father's well being. "My great-great-grandson has always had odd taste in houseguests…"

"Come here, then," Dumbledore ordered. "And quickly before anyone else joins us. You have all used a Portkey before?" They nodded, and grabbed hold of the kettle sitting on his desk. "Good. On the count of three then. One…Two…Three—"

She felt the familiar jerk as the Portkey pulled them all forward like fish on a line. Now this was a kind of flying that she never enjoyed. Luckily for her, it was over in moments, and they touched down in the basement of the Black house. Sirius himself hurried forward, looking even more disheveled than they did. He offered her help getting up in the form of a hand. "What's going on?" he asked. Ginny wrinkled her nose. He'd been into the fire whiskey again, she thought. "Phineas Nigellus says Arthur's been badly injured—"

The mention of her father's name and condition brought Ginny's mind abruptly into focus. "Ask Harry," said Fred.

"Yes, I want to hear this for myself," said George. Agreeing whole-heartedly, turned to look at Harry. He was biting his lip, as if giving very careful thought to his words.

"It was— I had– a kind of— vision…" he began. He then launched into the story of his dream, or vision, in which he had seen a huge snake attack her father, and how he had seemed to be so badly injured. She noticed that Harry never met her gaze or that of the twins in the course of his whole story. He was keeping something back. She stared at him for a while, trying to figure out what it might be, when Fred broke the silence.

"Is Mum here?" he asked Sirius.

"She probably doesn't even know what's happened yet," he replied. "The important thing was to get you away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect Dumbledore's letting Molly know now."

Her panic returned abruptly. "We've got to get to St. Mungo's," she said, spitting out the first idea that came into her head. She looked around, thinking fast. "Sirius, can you lend us cloaks or anything-- ?"

"Hang on!" he interrupted. "You can't go tearing off to St. Mungo's!"

"Course we can," Fred retorted, "He's our dad!"

"And how are you going to explain how you knew Arthur was attacked before the hospital even let his wife know?" Sirius demanded right back.

George backed his twin. "What does that matter?" he said, but Ginny knew it was a good point. She thought fast.

"Somebody else could have told us," she offered. "We could have heard it somewhere other than Harry…"

"Like who?" Sirius interrupted again. She tried to come up with a good answer, but he plowed on. "Listen, your dad's been hurt while on duty for the Order and the circumstances are fishy enough without his children knowing about it seconds after it happened, you could seriously damage the Order's…"

But the twins were hearing none of it. "We don't care about the dumb ordered!" declared one. "It's our dad dying we're talking about!" said the other.

"Your father knew what he was getting into," Sirius argued back, "and he won't thank you for messing things up for the order. This is how it is—this is why you're not in the Order—you don't understand—there are things worth dying for!"

Surprisingly, this helped to steady Ginny once again. Yes, there are things worth dying for, she thought. Dad's hurt, and badly, but only because he was doing his duty as a member of the Order. And as a Gryffindor. And as a Weasley…

The twins and Sirius argued for a bit longer, but Ginny was calm. When Sirius suggested they should stay put until they heard from Mum, she recognized immediately recognized the wisdom in it and sat down. The others, slowly, followed her lead, steeling themselves for a long night of waiting. Sirius got them all drinks, and Ginny sucked at hers quietly, putting her thoughts in order.

She had no idea how long they had been sitting there before Fawkes the phoenix appeared again in a burst of flame, only to disappear a moment later, leaving behind a rolled piece of parchment and another shimmering feather. Ginny continued to stare at it as George read the letter aloud. "_Dad is still alive. I am setting out for St. Mungo's now. Stay where you are. I will send news as soon as I can. Mum_." Silence. "Still alive…" he said. "But that makes it sound…"

He didn't finish his sentence. He didn't have to. Ginny looked around at her siblings. Ron was still in shock. Fred was reading the letter, having snatched it from George's hands. George himself just stood there, still as a statue. Harry, meanwhile, looked strangely detached, lost in his own thoughts, but his hand was shaking badly. Sirius just stood back, giving everyone in turn the same concerned look.

There was nothing to do now but wait. Ginny knew that she would get no sleep that night. When Sirius suggested they go to bed and wait for news in the morning, she didn't even dignify the statement with a response. Instead she curled up and prepared herself for the long night.

She stared into the fire, and tried not to think. She tried not to let the red of the flames remind her of her father's hair, which he had passed on to her and all of her siblings. She tried not to remember him smiling when he taught her to fly, or laughing as she got back at the twins with a particularly nefarious prank, or holding her close when she was sad. Like he had when she was just a little girl with a scraped knee. Like he had when Ron had gone to Hogwarts and left her alone in the house. Like he had that night in the Hospital Wing, after Harry had rescued her from Tom Riddle, and the terrible nightmare that was the Chamber of Secrets.

The Chamber. At this thought, her eyes returned to the golden feather Fawkes had left with the letter. It reminded her of the haunting song she had heard, which had given her hope even while she was in Riddle's dark clutches. It reminded her of the sight of Harry when she had awoken, exhausted, injured and covered in blood and slime, but still oddly reassuring. And holding that wonderful sword. Gryffindor's sword.

Gryffindor. The golden feather flashing in the fire's crimson light made her think about her House. Gryffindor. The Lion's House. Gryffindor. The House where only the truly noble and brave were allowed. Gryffindor. The House which had held every member of her family for the last three generations. Her House. Her brother's House. Her mother's House. Her father's house. And never was there a Gryffindor braver of nobler than my Dad, she thought. And even if we lose him, even if the next time we see him is in a coffin draped in crimson, we'll know he lived a most noble life, full of the greatest of deeds, and that he died doing the same.

The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she found great courage in it. I pray you'll come back to us, Dad, she thought. And I pray that someday, somehow, I'll be able to make you proud. To be brave and noble, like a true Gryffindor. Like a true Weasley.

Time seemed to stand still. The tears that had gathered in her eyes fell down her face, one by one, but they only ran like rain across a rock face, and her eyes were dry when she turned to see her mother walk in the door at ten past five. Fred, Ron, and Harry stood as she walked in, but Ginny remained in her seat, full of courage, ready to hear the worst. But her mother smiled gently. "He's going to be alright," she said quietly, clearly ready to collapse from exhaustion. "He's sleeping. We can all go and see him later. Bill's sitting with him now, he's going to take the morning off work."

Harry just stood, still lost in a reverie, but clearly relieved. Ron laughed, the only way he could think of to relieve the terrible emotional pressure. Fred collapsed into his chair and quietly cried, all the anger, fatigue, worry, and relief finally melting through his stony defenses. George stood for the first time in hours and hugged his mother, seeking his own relief in the comfort of her arms.

Ginny followed him. Only a few hours before, she would have come for the same reason, as a child, needing her mother's reassurance. But the night's vigil had changed her, imperceptibly. She did not go to take comfort. She went to offer it. She felt her mother's arms shaking slightly as they encircled her, weak from the sleepless hours of fear and worry. She stood firm, a pillar of strength, well beyond tears and worry now. All that remained were relief, and the courage that had sustained her long enough to get it. And as she felt her mother's tears splash onto the top of her head, she only squeezed tighter, trying somehow to transmit a little of her extra courage to her. Such is my duty, she thought, as a daughter. And as a Weasley. And as a Gryffindor.

A/N: just a bit of an inspiration I got while rereading that section of OotP. I've set it up as a one shot fic, but am tempted to expand it a bit to include the rest of Christmas, or maybe even the whole year. Read and review and give me more opinions. Look for replies to your reviews over at my other story (Birth of a Monster: Diary of TM Riddle.) And while you're over there, you might as well read that one too shameless plug Hope you enjoyed it!


	3. Valor Without Renown

A/N- My but it's been a while. Sorry to leave this hanging for so long. My life's been very busy, but if something is important, you just have to make the time. Huge, huge thanks to Lilrebelgil and Rhiannon Deschain for your reviews. I probably would've forgotten about this entirely without them.

Disclaimer- All people and places are the product of JK Rowling. Nearly all of the dialogue is lifted verbatim from "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" by JK Rowling. The title of this chapter is taken from "The Return of the King" by JRR Tolkien

Valor Without Renown

Minerva McGonagall, like the Roman goddess whose name she bore, was a warrior, a veteran of many battlefields and with as many scars to prove it: she had braved the curses of Death Eaters, even the He Who Must Not Be Named himself, in the First War; she had distinguished herself on the dueling strip besting many opponents with a well placed curse, or even blade thrust (she'd picked up the Muggle sport of fencing in her younger days, and found it to be to her liking); she had helped Albus to negotiate the difficult political and administrative minefields of the last few months. Today, however, she was fighting a very different kind of battle, on a very different kind of battlefield.

As was her habit, she studied her field of battle, and her opponent as well, looking for any tactical advantage to be had, any weakness to be exploited. She sat in her office, behind her desk, littered with pamphlets and fliers describing magical careers and professions, waiting for the next student to arrive for a career consultation. She was not alone. In the back corner of the room, clipboard in hand, sat Dolores Jane Umbridge, Headmistress, Hogwarts High Inquisitor, and Minerva's foe today. If she had been a woman of verbose bent, she could have found words eloquent enough to express the loathing she felt for the toad-like creature before her, with her saccharine demeanor serving only as camouflage for the putrid heart that rotted beneath. Every second she had to spend, staring at her across her office, only increased her rage. She glanced at her clock on the wall. He was late.

"Sorry, Professor," said Harry Potter, as he sprinted through her office door. Not so late after all. "I forgot…"

"No matter, Potter," was her swift and even reply. She took him in with a single glance, her practiced eye noting his shortness of breath, his nervousness, and the scattered thoughts behind those green eyes of his, all in the time it would take another person to blink. This was her battlefield today, and the heart and mind of this young man were the hill to be held, or to die on. Few people, whether in the Order or elsewhere, save Albus Dumbledore himself, understood his importance as well as Minerva. Whether they knew it or not, the hopes and fears of the entire world rested on his skinny shoulders. Even before he was born, he was destined to be the champion and standard bearer for all people, wizard and Muggle, human and creature and monster, in the greatest battle of the age. But if those hopes were to be realized and those fears fought back once more, if that battle was to be won, this Boy Who Lived would have to go on living, and learning, and growing, until that day came. And if that was to happen, many other, smaller battles would have to be won. This was one of those battles, but knowing how important it was did not help Minerva's confidence. Not one bit.

From the back corner, Umbridge gave one of her characteristic sniffs. Potter turned in surprise, as if this was the first time he had noticed her. Not good, Minerva thought to herself, I've let her make the first move. I'll have to work quickly if I'm to undermine her advantage. "Sit down, Potter," was all she said aloud, and only her shaking hands belied the confident face she was trying to put on this rapidly deteriorating situation. Crouched in her corner, Umbridge began to scribble furiously.

"Well, Potter," Minerva went on, desperate to keep his attention away from what was going on behind him, "this meeting is to talk over any career ideas you might have, and to help you decide which subjects you should continue into sixth and seventh years. Have you had any thoughts about what you would like to do after you leave Hogwarts?"

Potter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. She could tell that he was trying his best to focus on the task at hand, but that so far he was failing at it. When she had first heard that Umbridge would be sitting in on their meeting, Minerva had planned to act mostly defensively, running the meeting so quickly and efficiently that the toad-woman would be unable to get a word in edge-wise. If she could only be prevented from interfering, Minerva might be able to nudge Potter's thoughts in a productive direction, one that would keep him hard at work in his learning and far enough out of trouble to keep him in school. That, at least, was what Albus had wanted. But no plan survives the beginning of battle, as she well knew, and Umbridge's loud writing was having its intended effect. The boy simply couldn't get his thoughts together.

"Er," is all he said.

I've got to get him some cover, she thought. "Yes?" she asked, her tone clearly telling him to go on.

That was all he needed. "Well, I though of, maybe, being an Auror," he all but whispered. At least it's a start, she thought with an inward smile, and definitely one I can work with.

"You'd need top grades for that. They ask for a minimum of five N.E.W.T.s, and nothing under 'Exceeds Expectations' grade, I see." That ought to give him a reason to take his school-work seriously, she thought. And maybe spend a little bit more time with Hermione Granger. He could use the stabilizing influence. Umbridge had stopped scribbling, her face wrinkled in concentration. Formulating a new plan of attack, no doubt, Minerva thought, let's see if I can keep her off balance.

"Then you would be required to undergo a stringent series of character and aptitude tests at the Auror office. It's a difficult career path, Potter; they only take the best. In fact, I don't think anybody has been taken on in the last three years." But we both know you aren't scared of a challenge, boy, she thought furiously, willing him to hear her. On the contrary, it's when you set your mind to a goal you care about that you're at your best. But will you set your mind to it?

A very quiet cough signaled that Umbridge had settled on a new tactic, but it was exactly the sort Minerva had expected. Don't think you're getting into the conversation that easily, Dolores, she thought to herself. My wall of words can handle far worse.

She pressed on. "You'll want to know which subjects you ought to take, I suppose?"

"Yes," Potter replied. "Degense Against the Dark Arts, I suppose?"

"Naturally," she answered, practically glowing inside to see the boy show initiative. "I would also advise—"

Another cough, louder than before, temporarily derailed her train of thought. Anger and frustration welled up immediately in Minerva's chest, threatening to burst the dam of her composure and sweep away her meticulously laid defense. No, she chided herself, can't lose my composure yet. I have to keep going. He's depending on me.

"I would also advise Transfiguration, because Aurors frequently need to Transfigure or Untransfigure in their work. And I ought to tell you now, Potter, that I do not accept students into my N.E.W.T. classes unless they have achieved 'Exceeds Expectations' or higher at Ordinary Wizarding Level. I'd say you're averaging 'Acceptable' at the moment, so you'll need to put in some good hard work before the exams to stand a chance of continuing." The boy's attention was fixed. Now she could hope to build a little momentum, if only Umbridge would sit on her hands a bit longer.

"Then you ought to do Charms, always useful, and Potions." He grimaced openly, bringing a faint smile to Minerva's lips. Severus Snape was a worthy foe, both on the dueling strip and in wars of words. She could only imagine the kinds of feelings he inspired in his students, especially this particular student. "Yes, Potter, Potions. Poisons and antidotes are essential study for Aurors. And I must tell you that Professor Snape absolutely refuses to take students who get anything other than 'Outstanding' on their O.W.L.s, so—"

Another cough sounded from the back of the room, stopping the steady advance of Minerva's speech with the viciousness of a perfectly timed stop-thrust. I've ignored her too long, Minerva thought, time for yet another change of tactics. Let's see if she can parry as well as she attacks. "May I offer you a cough drop, Dolores?" Perfect. Try and gain ground with that.

"Oh no, thank you very much," came back that cloying voice, "I just wondered whether I could make the teeniest interruption, Minerva?"

Parry and riposte, she thought, her anger rising once again. I may have underestimated her. "I daresay you'll find you can," she said aloud, gritting her teeth in an effort to keep anything else from slipping out.

"I was just wondering whether Mr. Potter has _quite _the right temperament for an Auror?" His temperament was much better before Cornelius Fudge let loose his attack dogs in the press, to say nothing of his attack toad in the school, with the express purpose of provoking him. You're not advancing any further on this flank.

"Were you? Well Potter, if you are serious in this ambition, I would advise you to concentrate hard on bringing your Transfiguration and Potions up to scratch." That's the ticket, she thought. Now I've given him a goal. All that's left is to drive it home. "I see Professor Flitwick has graded you between 'Acceptable' and 'Exceeds Expectations' for the last two years, so your Charms work seems satisfactory." She saw Umbridge tense, sensing the approaching opportunity. This was a weak point all along, all I can do is hope. "As for Defense Against the Dark Arts, your marks have been generally high, Professor Lupin in particular thought you—" the inevitable cough. She felt her temper slipping from her grasp. "_Are you quite sure you wouldn't like a cough drop, Dolores?_"

"Oh, no need, thank you, Minerva," she said, not even stopping to breathe before launching her attack, "I was just concerned that you might not have Harry's most recent Defense Against the Dark Arts marks in front of you. I'm quite sure I slipped in a note…"

There it is, she thought, the note. By now her anger was getting the better of her. All thought of tactics or strategy was quickly falling aside. Now pure battle instinct was guiding her, and it was guiding her into peril. "What, this thing?" She didn't even bother to hide her revulstion.

"Yes, as I was saying, Potter," she said, falling back once again on simply blocking Umbridge out, "Professor Lupin thought you showed a pronounced aptitude for the subject, and obviously for an Auror—"

"Did you not understand my note, Minerva?" Umbridge said without warning, catching her off guard.

"Of course I understood it," Minerva all but growled, reluctantly conceding the initiative to her foe.

"Well then I am confused…I'm afraid I don't quite understand how you can give Mr. Potter false hope that—"

"False hope?" she struck back, unable to actually look at the woman across from her for fear of losing her temper entirely. "He has achieved high marks in all his Defense Against the Dark Arts tests—"

"I'm terribly sorry to have to contradict you, Minerva, but as you will see from my note, Harry has been achieving very poor results in his classes with me—"

"I should have made my meaning plainer," she said as she turned, her voice carrying all the menace of a drawn sword. "He has achieved high marks in all Defense Against the Dark Arts tests set by a competent teacher."

_Touché_! She thought in triumph, seeing how instantly and completely the remark had silenced her foe. The rational part of her knew, however, that the battle was far from over, and that she would pay dearly for that before it was over.

"Any questions, Potter?" she asked, knowing her only hope was to end the meeting before Umbridge could do any more damage.

"Yes," the boy said, cheering Minerva once again by his show of initiative. "What sort of character and aptitude tests do the Ministry do on you, if you get enough N.E.W.T.s?"

"Well, you need to demonstrate the ability to react well to pressure and so forth. Perseverance and dedication, because Auror training takes a further three years, not to mention very high skills in practical defense." Umbridge was tensing again, looking like a flabby but dangerous panther, preparing to spring. I've got to hurry this up, she thought. "It will mean a lot more study even after you've left school, unless you're prepared to—"

The panther sprang. "I think you'll also find that the Ministry looks into records of those applying to be Aurors. Their criminal records."

No, thought Minerva desperately, no now. I can't let you humiliate him all over again, this is too important. She pressed on in a panic. "—unless you're prepared to take even more exams after Hogwarts, you should really look at another—"

But her foe was relentless. "—which means this boy has as much chance of becoming an Auror as Dumbledore has of ever returning to this school."

"A very good chance, then," she retorted, cheered by the mention of her mentor, but fearing this was a battle she could not win.

"Potter has a criminal record," Umbridge all but shouted.

"Potter has been cleared of all charges," was the even louder reply. If I must go down, she thought, I'll go down fighting. Why couldn't I have gotten the boy out sooner?

Umbridge left her chair, ready for the final fight. "Potter has not chance whatsoever of being an Auror!"

The terrible power of these words devastated Minerva. Behind her commanding demeanor, deep in her warrior heart, her morale crumpled. She was right, or at least potentially so. She had already proven her ability to provoke Harry, to distract him from his studies, and even without such interference his chances of gaining admission to the Aurors were slim. These carefully planted seeds of motivation might have pushed him on, but with that horrible woman's interference, now they might never take. She had failed; failed the Order, failed Albus, failed the world.

But in that brief moment of despair, she looked away from her enraged foe, fixing her eyes once more on the boy…the young man who sat silently before her. She looked at him and she remembered: she remembered a warm November day, now fourteen years past, and how on that day, out of all the darkness and the fear, out of ruin and of death and of hatred, this boy had come, this Boy Who Lived.

And looking at him again, now grown nearly to manhood, Minerva felt something stir deep inside her. It wasn't anger, though it burned far hotter. It wasn't battle-lust, though it was far more perilous to her foes. It wasn't even shrewdness, though it promised victory with more certainty than any stratagem her brilliant mind could have conceived. It was hope that she felt, and with it the return of something she hadn't even known was gone. For the first time in many months, since she had been ready to fight for the freedom of her beloved captain, only to be left alone to struggle with the foul toad and her intrigues, she felt her courage return. Not the grim and fatalistic courage of the warrior who accepts death, but the shining and unconquerable courage of the one who defies it. The courage she had learned from Albus Dumbledore. The courage of a true Gryffindor.

She stood up to her considerable height, buoyed by what was stirring within. "Potter," she said, with the conviction of truth absolute, "I will assist you to become an Auror if it is the last thing I do! If I have to coach you nightly I will make sure you achieve the required results!" The look she saw in his eyes gratified her more than any praise or accolade could have. He would accept the challenge. She had won the day. The ensuing shouting match with the High Inquisitor barely phased her. At the moment, she felt as if she could take five stunning spells to the chest and still walk tall. Albus would be proud.

A/N- not quite so pleased with this one as the others. Maybe I'll rewrite it later. Let me know what you think.


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